


Friction

by DHW



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Bickering, Illustrations, Innuendo, M/M, Pole Dancing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-01
Updated: 2021-03-01
Packaged: 2021-03-14 06:28:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29787816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DHW/pseuds/DHW
Summary: Julian shows off his pole dancing skills.Well, tries to.(Illustrated fic)
Relationships: Julian Bashir/Elim Garak
Comments: 17
Kudos: 45





	Friction

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BlessedAreTheFandoms](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlessedAreTheFandoms/gifts).



> This was inspired by BlessedAreTheFandom's fantastic fic [A Clever Disguise](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29656575) \- a delightfully saucy affair where Julian confesses to having taken pole dancing lessons back at the Academy. 
> 
> As someone who has dabbled in the aerial arts, I thought it might be fun to have Julian give Garak a demonstration of the other side of pole dancing. Pole art rather than exotic (heels optional). Unfortunately for the pair of them, it all goes a bit wrong...

  


## How it started:

  


## How it ended:

Picture the scene: Garak's quarters, 2200 hours. 

Specifically the living area, in which two figures are sitting. One perched primly upon an overstuffed chair, the other stretched out upon the sofa, half buried beneath a mound of loud-looking cushions. The room is hot—almost uncomfortably so for one of the occupants—and there are the faint strains of something vaguely twenty-first century (Earth, not Cardassian) playing in the background. 

Much like the tea in the pot upon the table, an argument is brewing. 

"This isn't exactly how I imagined the evening would go," says Julian.

With a loud sigh, his head lolls back against the multitude of cushions. One arm thrust out to the side, the other hooked over the sofa back, his pose is vaguely reminiscent of a Renaissance painting. 

Or would be, if not for the ice pack sandwiched between his bare thighs. 

"It was a spectacular show," Garak says. He adjusts the set of his sleeve with a practiced flick of the wrist. There is the shimmer of Andorian silk. “Very entertaining. In fact, one might even go so far as to say I was enthralled.”

"Garak…" Julian growls.

"I'm serious, Doctor. I had anticipated a somewhat vulgar display. After all, humans are not known for their subtlety.” Garak’s eyes are alight with something that isn’t quite mirth. Challenge, perhaps. Or the thrill of a quarrel yet to come. Barely ten minutes had passed since the _incident_ , and already the air was thick with Garak’s lies. “My impression of this evening was that it would be spent watching you gyrate against a particularly unsubtle piece of phallic symbolism.”

Julian turns to pin Garak with a hard stare, (mostly) naked body twisting with the action. The ice pack begins to slip from between his thighs; a quiet grunt of discomfort follows his efforts to push it back into place. Even in the low light of Garak’s rooms, the skin of the Doctor’s inner thighs is noticeably pink. Edging into red. 

"There's more to pole dancing than just wiggling your hips, you know,” he says, picking at the hem of his shorts. The fabric is damp with condensation from the ice. “It may have a salacious reputation, but it's also a legitimate sport."

"I never said that it wasn't,” Garak counters.

“You heavily implied it."

There is a pause whilst Garak pours the tea. Two cups, one with too much sugar and not enough milk, rattle against their saucers as the Cardassian rises from his seat. 

“It was merely an observation, rather than a complaint,” he says, handing one to Julian before coming to kneel beside the sofa. 

The fabric of Garak’s robe—deep blue, like a sapphire, or the crystal waters of the Lakatian Sea—pools around his knees. One of his many indulgences. His penchant for hedonism expressed in silk and satin trim.

“You called it vulgar,” Julian says sourly. He takes a sip from the cup, narrowed eyes watching Garak over the rim.

“Has it occurred to you that I might enjoy a touch of vulgarity every now and then?”

A laughable statement from a man known to refuse to fill his kanar glass more than half way lest he be thought of as uncouth. It seems barely worth the effort it takes to say it. And yet, Julian can't help but recall some of their evening activities, many of which Garak had found intensely enjoyable. Vulgar would certainly be the word for some of it. Along with obscene, salacious and downright rude. Perfect, too, if he were pushed to further elaborate.

“Liar,” Julian says, unsure whether he means it. His tone is equal parts fondness and irritation. “Besides, my intentions were to show you the skill, artistry and beauty inherent in poledance. As I said, there is more to the sport than suggestive thrusting—as enthralling as I know you find that. Which you do. No matter how fervent your denial,” he says, voice coy. “It's not just about sex or seduction, though that is an element of it. It’s also a test of strength. Showmanship. Something I think I rather aptly demonstrated before I, er…” 

“Fell?”

“Prematurely dismounted,” Julian corrects. 

Garak pats him gently upon the leg.

“The only premature act of the evening, I’m sure.”

The twitch of muscles best left unspecified indicates that this, too, may be a lie. A pleasant one, however. Liable to leave the pair of them ready for round two before the night is over, the refractory period between spent exploring each other's ins and outs with slightly more prehensile appendages than those employed in round one. 

Julian’s fingers flex in anticipation.

“It was probably a touch overambitious, the _anastasia_. I should have stuck with the _superman_ ,” says the doctor after a moment, once his cup is empty. “I’m a little out of practice.”

Julian is often given to understatement. If asked about the sound his premature dismount from the pole had made, he would likely say that there had been ‘a slight squeak’. In the same way he would describe the aftermath as a touch of carpet burn near the… well, he didn’t like to repeat words twice in the same sentence. 

(If Garak were asked, he would deny the existence of the pole.) 

The ice really did help.

"I still enjoyed it," Garak says. 

He sets aside his cup. Plucks Julian’s from his fingers, too, leaving the pair stood upon the ornamental table. 

"Of course you did," Julian grumbles. He lies back once more, wayward body more dramatic than his words will ever be. “I heard you laugh.”

"A reaction borne simply of shock, I assure you.”

Another pause. This one defined by the hesitant exploration of Julian’s exposed skin. Trembling grey fingers slowly work their way from ankle to hip, cataloguing the oddly placed bruises that are beginning to blossom upon Julian’s shins (each a souvenir from the pole). They stop at the knee, tracing the contours of the bones. 

"I could… What's the human expression?” Garak asks. “Kiss it better?"

Julian appears to consider the proposition. Then, he moves upon the sofa, legs parting, expression suddenly suggestive.

Julian’s shorts are _very_ short. And tight. They leave nothing to the imagination. 

“Or,” he says, “you could take my mind off it? Distract me from the pain.”

Garak smiles. He licks his lips, smile widening as he sees Julian’s eyes dip to follow the movement of his tongue. Slowly, his fingers restart their journey upwards towards the crux of Julian’s thighs. The touch is bolder this time. 

“What an interesting idea.”

  


**Author's Note:**

> The move Julian is demonstrating is the [Anastasia](https://www.onlinepolestudio.com/moves/pole/advanced/anastasia/) \- which is basically a superman, but infinitely more painful. The photograph on the site was used as a reference image. The drawing is sepia and sanguine pencils on paper.


End file.
